


Ten Things that Go Boom

by ren_makoto



Category: DCU
Genre: Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 22:16:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5472572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ren_makoto/pseuds/ren_makoto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas Eve and Superman needs Batman's help to stop a Holiday Disaster. Romance explodes! Other things explode, too, but romance is the important part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten Things that Go Boom

Metropolis.

This holiday, the city doesn't look very different from all the rest of the year: all cloudless, starry, indigo skies and wide, clean streets. There's no snow, so the towers of light just stab up and up unblemished. The idea in Metropolis is that progress is always very tall and shiny. Gotham seems to think that progress means one more gargoyle and a few superfluous buttresses.

And Superman likes the towers of his city (even if the jury is still out on buttresses). And he likes the skyline as is.

Which is why he imagines a ticking noise in the back of his mind and flies faster.

There are decorations here—that and the cold the only signs of the season. There's the mayor's Christmas tree, light-lined avenues, and even a gravity-defying wreath on top of the Daily Planet.

No one's complained about it and he knows it's only because people humor Superman.

There are even carolers—he can hear them on a slightly shaky version of Jingle Bells as he zooms by the luxurious mansion of Lex Luthor. The reason for their fear is explained when Luthor shouts out the window, "What about 'Go the hell away' did you not understand the first damn time?" The flickering lights of the carolers' candles gleam off his smooth head, making him rather festive despite all the cursing.

Superman picks up speed.

Then it's a fearless plunge into the grime that Gotham calls air, through the double doors of a posh hotel. Past the concierge. Down the stairwell at Mach 3.

Just as he comes around the corner, the voice he followed in the first place stops him cold from behind the heavy door with, "Any motion outside of the areas I showed you will trigger the alarms, and then we'll have to explain to the Gotham Police what we're doing here and how, exactly, we got in."

So opening the door is a  _bad_  idea, Clark thinks and wonders if any two men have ever had timing as bad as theirs.

He peeks, just once.

Bruce and Dick are moving closer to the safe embedded in the wall. It's a hulking thing with shiny locks and digital readouts. It looks impenetrable, even to Clark. Bruce says something about Dick cracking this one for 'practice' and Dick makes a smart comment about hating safes and never wanting to ride in one again, and Clark feels like this is a story he should know. Still, grumbles and all, Dick cracks the safe. In seconds.

Clark waits. He listens to a news report in a room floors and floors up, hears the time from the reporter, and thinks that now is when people tap their feet in all the movies.

And he waits some more, doing his best to keep his eyes to himself. Off Bruce in his smart tux and shiny shoes.

There's a Christmas party far above them in the banquet hall of the hotel. He hears one of the rich and spoiled (and tipsy) say, "…no good at all, just like  _Bruce_. I believe they used to share two brain cells, but then one of them died. The brain cells, I mean.  _Hic!_  Did you see that hair? Too long by half!"

"He _is_  handsome, though, don't you think?"

"If you like them pretty but dumb."

Inside the secured room, Dick rattles off the technical stats on plans he's found in the safe and suggests three ways to make the thing break down without anyone knowing why. Bruce adds another two, both a little meaner than Dick's.

Superman figures it's okay for Bruce Wayne to do illegal things at his own Christmas party. Apparently one of the guests has elected to hide important documents in the hotel's underground safe. The big question is whether Bruce scheduled the party and  _then_  saw the opportunity, or scheduled the party to  _have_  the opportunity. And Clark can see that this is one of those occasions when it's easier for Brucie than Batman to maneuver his way through the locked doors by acting like a drunken idiot on the way to the bathroom he just can't seem to find. Batman would have stood out like a six-foot-two bat at a white tie affair.

Which is what he would have been, Clark guesses. And he isn't feeling very much like Superman right now, what with clever thoughts like that and all. He blames Bruce who is taking his time during an emergency he doesn't know about (granted, not his fault), and pointedly not saying anything about how easy the safe was to open. Dick isn't so restrained.

And the thing about Dick is that he's still Robin.

When he feels like being Robin.

Tonight is one of those moments, and Clark gets the idea that the main attraction to having a plucky kid sidekick is that they can say all the witty, funny and apropos things that the Batman is too grim and scary to pull off. Even when puberty is a distant memory. For example, Batman couldn't say, "The dorks who designed this safe must be the same ones who built Arkham 'cause neither one keeps a thing inside," which is what Dick says.

If Batman said things like that, criminals would be more than superstitious and cowardly. They'd also be very, very confused.

And he really, really needs to talk to Batman who he  _knows_  is going to be upset about the ice over the lens trick he had to pull on all the cameras. He'd have shut them off in a more tech-savvy way if he were feeling at all tech-savvy.

And not in a rush.

He wants to go in  _now_ , but it's just  _awkward_  with Nightwing and Batman doing an expert job playing at Robin and Bruce all while committing corporate espionage.

He could call it 'Batgate' if anybody had any idea about a) Bruce Wayne being Batman, b) his robbing the hotel, and c) what Watergate refers to in the first place. Today's youngsters, he thinks, aren't so informed. Still, his journalist's mind tells him that 'Batgate' has a certain ring to it.

"Hey, these photos aren't what we're looking for, are they?"

Bruce pauses and then Batman answers, "No, but take those, too."

"Okaaay, but  _boy_  am I glad I'm wearing gloves." Dick is whistling and probably turning the pictures around, trying to figure out which way is up. Then Robin says, "Holy bondage gear, Batman! This isn't even legal in  _Jersey_."

He can feel rather than see the smile Batman is stifling and the idea of it is enough to show Clark why Dick does it, why he never stops being the Boy Wonder, even when he's any combination of Dick Grayson and Nightwing for everyone else.

Clark doesn't know who he has to be to make Bruce smile. Is beginning to think that he'll never know how to make Batman do the same.

Dick closes the safe and it makes a  _clang thud_. Then Bruce leads them back through the maze of sensors and alarms, and Clark knows that Bruce is defying safety measures he himself designed and installed. It's a little uncomfortable waiting outside a hotel strong room that's more like the Batcave.

"Are we clear?" Robin asks and Bruce grunts a reply that is somehow understood.

Then there's a rustle of fabric, a footstep taken closer to Bruce. And there's something wrong about the way that Robin is breathing, his heartbeat. It's the same heartbeat he had when he was twelve and so desperate to prove himself to Bruce, so hungry for a compliment or even a small show of affection that his heart raced out of control if Bruce even touched his shoulder or examined a cut ("Are you hurt, boy?" and "N-no, Batman. No.").

That heartbeat now, only deeper, older. Clark wants to look. Doesn't.

"That's some lousy party you've thrown, Bruce. Do you think anyone's noticed we're gone?"

"No. Most likely, no."

"Good. So we're alone for a bit?"

A pause followed by, "We are."

"Imagine that! No alarms or crises or…anything. When do jobs go this smoothly? Kinda makes a guy nostalgic. Remember that time in the bank on Ross and First when I threw that guy—"

"Right into the panic button? Yes, I remember." Bruce doesn't sound angry, which is how he must have sounded back then. Now he's just wistful and…charmed?

"That was pretty funny," Dick tries.

"I'm laughing on the inside. How old were you?"

"Fourteen."

"Old enough to know better."

"I was distracted."

And something about that makes Bruce pause once more before he says, "Well, let's not make that mistake again."

Bruce is moving for the door again, but Dick stops him with, "Hey, we can talk, can't we? While we're alone. I mean…I wanted to tell you. That is." Dick shuffles nearer and says, "Just…Happy Christmas, Bruce."

It's testament to the upbringing he had, one with an English butler, that he says it that way. Bruce is more careful, All-American playboy to the core.

"Merry Christmas," he says and it's almost a reprimand with the stress on the 'merry.'

Dick catches it and says, "Right. That, too." Clark knows he's smiling nervously and that, somehow, they're even closer.

"Wanna give me my present now?" All he can hear is grinning, spry youth and flapping yellow cape. Any minute he'll do a backflip and land on one pinky. And make a joke. And somehow win when there's no reason why he should except for the fact that Bats hate to lose. The 'R' is more like a subcutaneous tattoo, but it's still  _there_.

Clark gets the feeling that Bruce is trying hard  _not_  to call him a name, one of many. "What do you want?" and it's mostly breath and hesitation.

"Just…well… _this_  I guess."

Which is when Clark decides he's had enough.

There's a lot of embarrassed shuffling around and adjusting of bow ties and jackets. Dick is red-faced and impishly laughing. Bruce is nothing but Batman with a handsome mask on, grim and stiff-backed. There's a slow, sensual, wet, pink slide of tongue across Dick's bottom lip and Clark wants to think it's unintentional. Bruce doesn't seem to notice it even though there is the tiniest elevation to Bruce's heartbeat. Just enough.

Just enough for Bruce to fight it back down until someone with a stethoscope might question if he was even alive. Clark wants, more than anything, to know which of them caused that skip: Him in all his Super-powered finery, or Dick with his little lip lick?

Despite the Batman heart trick, it's Brucie who says, "Superman?" He's wearing admiration like a cologne and on anyone else Clark would be fooled. " _The_ Superman? Gosh. To what do we owe the pleasure? Here in Gotham? Wow!"

"I need your help," he says. He's proud of himself for not sounding like any of the things that he is, one of which is damn angry. He sounds rather heroic, actually.

"Well, I'm honored! This could be fun! An adventure! What seems to be the—"

"I've got a problem with a little something that goes _boom_ ," he interrupts because he doesn't have time for Brucie now.

"Anything for Superman," Brucie says smoothly.

"Might as well take me, too," Dick volunteers and Superman doesn't say what he's thinking. Which is that if he wanted one of Batman's little soldiers to come and disarm a bomb, the one he'd pick would be Tim. Dick is the guy to take when you want a loyal and obedient one-man army. One with witty repartee.

But he isn't here for the protégés. At this point, he just wants the real deal and he wants him away from the grown-up Robin with attributes that Robin is never supposed to have.

Superman is thinking fast. He takes a step to the left as he crosses his arms.

The alarms go off and he says, "Oops."

Bruce's eyes narrow just enough that Clark knows who he's dealing with  _now_  and Clark isn't even slightly intimidated because…

Well, because at the moment, he feels an awful lot like Superman.

Sometime during the staring contest between the two legends in his life he's spent way too much time admiring, Dick has gotten his tuxedo jacket and shirt off and Nightwing has started to emerge from his upper crust cocoon. Bruce's gaze doesn't even swing in the direction of his (maybe) replacement in training, and that's the problem because Clark can't tell if he's doing it on purpose or not.

It's Batman's voice when Bruce says, "Nightwing, run interference." Adhesive and a sure gesture and the mask is complete.

"Can do, boss." Then Nightwing is gone, just a fading, quiet tread down the long corridor. An athlete on the move. A machine.

Clark grabs up the mechanic without permission and takes off. Not so much time has passed. There's still time to save the day. Bruce will complain about being carried later.

But that's later.

* * *

The Christmas carolers are still harassing Lex Luther. Now they've moved to 'Oh, Come, Al Ye Faithful' and Luther has started gathering things to throw. Most of them are sharp.

"Dodge this, merrymakers!"

It's started to snow, at last. Snowflakes stick to Bruce's hair and to eyelashes that should never be hidden behind a mask. Clark feels Bruce tighten his grip; feels his breath on his neck; hears him say, "I could have taken my jet."

"Yes," Clark says and tightens right back. "You  _could_  have."

* * *

The bomb hasn't detonated yet.

They flew over the cops and the feds gathered outside and no one even saw them to cheer for them. The Daily Planet corridors were not built for flying, but Clark manages thanks to practice.

The wreath is still intact.

He wonders for a minute if he should have swung by the Cave to get bomb defusing materials. Then he has to delete that thought when Bruce pulls a small box from inside his tuxedo jacket—little pliers and tweezers, scissors and clamps. What works for a safe works for a bomb, perhaps.

He's mad at himself for being surprised; of course Bruce Wayne can't even go to a Christmas party without taking James Bond gear with him. For all Clark knows, the tux can be used as a flotation device.

Or to hold slick gloves that Bruce slides on before flexing his hands, making a rubbery squeak. Then the (paranoid) man is looking at the complex collage of wires, metal, chemicals, and fuses. He sighs.

"You said 'something' that goes boom. Some _thing_. Singular," says Bruce.

"Um. Yes? What's the problem?"

"There are ten bombs here."

"Oh. Right then. Ten things that go boom. Happy?"

"No, Clark. No, I'm not happy."

Clark doesn't smile, but it takes a small reserve of super strength. Then he says, "Good to know nothing's changed."

Bruce ignores that, whistles, and raises an eyebrow. "A disgruntled copy editor did this?"

"Yeah, can you believe it? He majored in electrical engineering and chemistry," Clark says. 

Bruce shakes his head. "These kits are huge. How did he get them into the building?"

"Blackmailed a delivery truck driver. And a security guard or two," Clark explains.

" _Why_  was he a copy editor, again?"

Clark thinks, then says, "He was a cousin of the science editor's hairdresser's sister-in-law."

Bruce opens his mouth as if to say something, then lets it shut. Clark can understand his feeling on that one.

"He's in a safe, quiet place now with doctors who can help him," Clark offers.

"But he left homemade bombs," says Bruce.

"Right," says Clark. "And if I try to move them—"

"They'll explode."

"And he hinted that—"

"They can be detonated remotely. Possibly by some accomplice who's not in a padded room," finishes Bruce.

Clark scratches his head. "Um. Yeah. And I guess we could just clear the area and let it be but…I kind of work here." He doesn't mention the wreath, but he really wants to.

Bruce walks down the row of blinking, copy editor-created mayhem. He's shaking his head and Superman hears him mutter "The  _media_ " under his breath.

To fill the silence that follows what passes for a curse with Bruce, Clark asks, "Can you disarm it?" He thinks, then amends, "Or them?"

"Yes."

"Can I do anything to help?" asks Clark.

Bruce loosens his tie and squints at the box nearest him. "No," he says. Then he squints a little more. "Yes." Clark floats closer, looks over his shoulder.

"What's first, boss?" he asks and it's in his best Nightwing voice, which isn't so far from his Robin voice, so he's not surprised when Batman growls an answer, a warning. And Clark is thinking that this is a hell of a way to spend Christmas. He's not sure if he's being facetious or not.

* * *

Clark is no dummy, but when he asks Bruce to explain  _exactly_  what he's doing to the bunch of wires in his left hand with the tiny scissors in his right, his answer sounds like:

"These explosives are blah, blah, blah, matrix of interlocking blah blah blah which means I have to re-align the thingamajig with the whosamawhat blah, blah, blah Richter scale blah blah and if we don't do that before the warp drive blah, blah saucer section blah, blah then there will be panic and terror blabbidy, blah, blah."

So he holds things and goes to get things when Bruce tells him to. He went up to his office to make some coffee a while ago and Bruce is sporadically drinking from Clark Kent's spare cup (I HEART Metropolis). Tonight, Superman is the world's most powerful errand boy and he wonders if this is how the Flash feels.

About five minutes into the evening of bomb disarming, Bruce disabled the timer (somehow) and proclaimed with dark Dark Knight-ness that "Time is not a problem." Clark had heard something fall to the floor with a  _thud_  and had almost felt sorry for the poor piece of metal and plastic. It had never stood a chance.

Now Bruce pulls a small device from the heel of his shoe that transforms into something that looks a little deadly, leans over a box that looks deadlier, and doesn't even flinch when the grinding noise and sparks start.

Bruce and his  _toys_.

Or, it had started out as Bruce.

The tux alone was enough to make the lie work and work well. But as the minutes have ticked by and the basement of the Planet hasn't gotten any cooler with the heat running non-stop and in need of repair…

It started with the tie. Then moved into a slow, deliberate peeling off of the jacket. Rolls of those bulky shoulders, teasing moments of reveal when a hem rode up and a flat stomach showed just long enough. When the damp white of his shirt slid off his arms and pooled on the floor, there was a ripple of muscle like waves on the sea. Clark had stared, openly, because Bruce had been too focused on the bombs to notice (he thinks).

He keeps staring, off and on, when Bruce isn't looking because…

What he's left wearing is not black, but if only it could be. Clark never would have thought that Bruce could become Batman by taking clothes  _off_.

His undershirt is wet with sweat and his responses have gotten colder, more monosyllabic, and more technical, and so it's pretty clear that Superman's in the room with a piece of eye candy in a tight white shirt and well-cut tuxedo pants that just so happens to be the World's Greatest Detective.

It's a little bit like the Man of Steel going to fetch coffee. It's just one of those holidays.

Come to think of it, he could take this opportunity to complain about the broken furnaces to the  _owner_  of the newspaper, but he doesn't think now is the time to say anything to Bruce other than, "Hey, my place of employment is still here, you must be doing a good job!"

Clark reconsiders saying anything at all once he imagines the acerbic responses Bruce could give to that. He shudders.

"No more remote detonation," Bruce says and tosses Clark something that looks like it came from a toaster.

"That's good news. This looks like it came from a toaster."

"It came from a toaster.," says Bruce.

"Ah," Clark says meaningfully. "How was the party?" He's asking the back of Bruce's head, watching it bob as he saws at something with a saw Clark doesn't know where he got or how.

"I wasn't there very long," Bruce answers.

"Oh, right. Batgate."

Bruce's jaw flexes. "This is just my opinion—and I'm no journalist—but if I were you, I wouldn't ever use that term again."

"It's bad?" asks Clark.

"It's  _very_  bad."

Clark is rather hurt and thinks about not offering to get coffee ever again. Bruce pulls a wire and then another. A light blinks out.

"That's two down," Bruce grumbles. "Eight to go. Number three looks bad."

"Aren't they all the same?" Clark wonders.

"I  _did_  explain all this already."

Clark becomes very interested in a cobweb and asks, "Want more coffee?"

"No. Can you heat these?" He gives specifics on temperature and intensity and doesn't show any doubt in Superman's ability to control his powers so precisely. A second later, Bruce has a hot  _something_  and he's back to work.

"You could have called Tim. He's good at this," he says. A wire flies to the left and another one to the right. There's a suspicious hissing noise and Clark feels his muscles tense.

"You were closer?" he says, and the question mark on the end of that was an accident, but he's pretty sure Bruce didn't catch it.

"No, Tim was closer," Bruce says and Clark rolls his eyes up, keeps them there. "Maybe."

He knows that Bruce probably wants him to leave, but he's not going to. Not that he doubts Bruce's abilities, but the truth of it is that the building  _could_  blow and the worst thing that would happen to Superman would be having to wash the soot out of his uniform. But Bruce Wayne would be nothing but a glamorous and tragic story on a competitor's front page. Nothing left to photograph. So Clark will stay and protect Bruce (wrap him in his cloak, shield him) and just…

And just be here. Together, not so unlike dozens of other times when they've tried to beat the odds while ignoring, well, everything else. He remembers so many moments, triumphs, near misses, failures and fights with this man that he's sure it's only his Kryptonian mind that keeps them all in order. He's not sure how Bruce does it or even if he bothers to.

Another flashing light stops flashing and Bruce says, "Number four is just like two. That makes sense if you think about the blah, blah, blah flux capacitor, blah, blah Doppler effect, blah."

Clark nods and wonders how Bruce got the scar on his left elbow.

Five minutes later and number four is done. Bruce looks a little smug. "Five is just like three," he says and starts back to work. He stays quiet and busy until he gets to six which he says is, "Nothing like any of the others. This is going to take awhile." He eyes Clark over his shoulder. "Can you lift that?"

Superman doesn't think "Of  _course_  I can" but Clark maybe does. He lifts it and Bruce slides under, all salamander wiggles and grime on his undershirt. He's not as soft as other humans considering he doesn't have some bizarre gift enhancing his body. He's just as much muscle as is practical with the need for speed and grace thrown in. His skin is so covered in scar tissue Clark wonders how much he can actually feel. What it would take to  _make_  him feel.

It's probably a good thing when Bruce has him put the box back down and they move very far away from each other. Bruce's stomach growls, loudly, and he looks guiltily at anything but Clark who says, "Break time?"

"Absolutely not."

Clark's smile widens. "Break time!"

* * *

Bruce is eating a free deli sandwich ("A-heya! Any-a-thing a for a da Supaman, eh?") and glaring at number six. "That thing—" he begins but stops himself. After a moment, he settles on, "I don't like that thing." He points at six in a way reminiscent of a bullied kid pointing at the upperclassman with his milk money.

"You're doing great," Clark tries.

"Don't be optimistic, Clark. I hate it when you're optimistic."

It's genuine curiosity (and surprise) that makes Superman ask, "Do you really?"

Bruce opens his mouth as if to say something, then shuts it on a turkey on rye, instead.

Clark got himself a turkey on white and takes a bite of his, too. He winces. "You know, my mom's are better. No offense to Mario, but…" He shrugs.

Bruce chews thoughtfully and says, "You're right. She toasts her bread. Alfred's are better, too."

One more disappointed bite and Clark says, "Yeah, and he makes those things with the thingies and the cheese on the…you know?" He wiggles his fingers descriptively and Bruce nods.

"Yes, and the cheese is all…stringy?" He takes another serious bite and shakes his head a little sadly.

"Exactly! I think the secret to a good turkey sandwich is how you apply the mayo. You have to put it on both slices and in between the turkey and the cheese so that the, the  _moistness_  goes through the whole sandwich."

Bruce suddenly sits up like a spring loaded Dark Knight. "That's  _it_!" he says with his mouth full, which means it sounds like "Waff wif!"

"Well, mayo IS exciting, but—"

"No, no!" Bruce says, swallowing. He drops his sandwich and advances menacingly on the bomb with a screwdriver. "Number six. How to disarm number six. I needed to amalgamate the chipper shredder wakka wakka doobiewoobbie spring sprang sprung. How could I have missed it? Mayo. Huh! Clark, you're a genius."

Clark decides that he has to take these rare compliments when they come (once every decade) so he says, "Thank you," and watches Bruce turn number six into so many toaster parts all thanks to the power of mayo.

Somehow, it never gets boring. Even when doobiewoobbies are involved.

* * *

There's really nothing to do but wait. Bruce has stopped over half of the bombs, but tells Clark, sternly, that the danger is far from over.

And to stop humming Christmas songs.

And to stop telling quaint stories that start with 'When I was on the farm one Christmas.'

So Clark spends his time helping when he can and trying to make small talk when he can't. They reminisce a little.

"No, Bruce, I'm pretty sure you called me 'Hayseed.'"

"But for over two years? That's ridiculous," says Bruce.

"Yes, it  _is_ , isn't it? And insulting," says Clark.

"Hrn."

"I do recall you calling me a 'Heartless, blue-blooded, trust fund baby' once."

"Did I? I can do  _so_  much better."

"Hrn."

Clark is running out of things to talk about, which is why (he thinks) "Dick tried to kiss you" stumbles out of his mouth like a drunk onto the street at New Years.

"Not now," Bruce says and a series of red and green Christmas colored wires fall out of the box Clark is holding up. Clark catches them before they drop onto Bruce's face.

"Thanks," says Bruce.

"Glad to help," Clark replies.

Bruce wiggles out, tells him he can set it down again. Clark does, gently, and wants to help more. Or talk more about that kiss.

Number seven is so fast Clark almost misses it. Eight is just like four.

Clark is holding things up again for number nine and leaning in close to freeze something Bruce asks him to freeze. Makes a suggestion that Bruce admits is 'Very good' (and two compliments in one night  _is_  a record).

Bruce smells like electronics and grease and, really, where did that scar come from? Nine, he says, is the key to the whole puzzle. The copy editor (and what a  _great_ name for a villain) arranged things so that, even if the first eight were disarmed, nine could still set off the entire grid. Bruce tells Clark this when they're so close he's sure that Bruce can hear  _his_ heartbeat. It's distracting enough that he almost misses it when Bruce tells him to lower what's left of nine back to the ground. Then Bruce is standing and straightening, backing away with a frown. He looks at number ten then back at Clark.

Then back at ten.

Then back at Clark.

"That one is armed," he says finally.

He points up. But Clark is already gone as soon as the 'd' sounds, taking number ten with him. There's a delay of about twenty seconds and then a light speed _boom_ followed by a small, perceptible _Shakabooom boom ba boom_.

The lights of the Planet flicker. The lights of everything near the Planet flicker.

Festively.

Bruce tugs off his gloves, dusts off his hands, and starts gathering up his clothes. He neatly returns all his tools to the case and slides the folding grinder back into the sole of his shoe. He slips on his white shirt and drapes his tie around his neck. His jacket goes over his arm.

"The bomb squad can come in now," he says to Clark without looking at him once he's back.

Clark coughs and it comes out as black air. "I hate copy editors," he says.

Bruce finally turns, takes in Clark's newly charcoal black uniform, raises an eyebrow at him. "You're a mess," he says.

"So are you."

Bruce looks down at his torn undershirt and his dusty tux jacket. "So I am."

Clark rolls his eyes up and to the right. He listens. "Bomb squad's here."

"Slackers."

"Shall we?" asks Clark.

"No we shan't. I can walk. I can call my jet. I can call my  _butler_."

"Not if I do _this_ ," Clark shouts. He's faster than a speeding bullet and all, so what chance does Batman have?

Bruce doesn't wait until later to complain and Clark manages not to hear "Blah, blah, blah, put me down, blah, blah" all the way to Wayne Manor.

* * *

"Master Clark, that is rather a new look for you," Alfred says, his voice echoing in the Cave. He sets clean towels on the benches and asks what they want to eat ("Two Reubens, Alfred. That way you make them. With the  _cheese_ ," Bruce says and wiggles his fingers). Then Alfred lives up to his reputation and fusses over them. 

"The news," he says with his arms crossed, "is full of angry Metropolis Police Officers who say they'd rather not work Christmas at all if some 'hotshot' is just going to do their job for them."

The hotshot ignores this and requests that Alfred bring Tim something for the holidays. Chocolate chip cookies, he says, would not be amiss. And Clark is thinking—

"Of course, Master Bruce. I have a batch ready to go."

Well, he's thinking that he should leave—

"And bring something clean for Clark to wear."

—or not. Yes, he's thinking that staying is a very good idea. It's not as much of a shock as he always imagined it might be. He wonders how things like this go for normal superheroes. Then he wonders exactly what a  _normal_  superhero is.

"I have just the thing," Alfred says without missing a beat; properly English until his last breath. He makes his way to the stairs. "Oh, and Master Dick called. He said that the party 'royally sucked' and that the officers couldn't find a single reason to explain the alarms."

Bruce makes a dry, "Hah!" to go with his scowl at Clark.

"Lastly, I believe Nightwing handled the situation admirably and that you should  _tell_ him so." With that, the door closes behind Alfred.

A few dark shadows pass over them and Clark tries his best to imagine the gloom and damp of the Cave in a festive light, but he just fails. A wreath might help.

It registers that they're alone somewhere in his mind, but then he thinks how silly that idea is because they've been alone together all night. Only now there are no bombs to defuse and no Robins in Nightwing's clothing to cause trouble. It's not like he can, in good conscience, blame Dick.

And maybe Bruce wants to talk. The towel he rubs across his face does a good job at smearing the grease, but not at removing it, and Clark is sure that it will be bleached until threadbare and then used to wash one of the Mercedes Benzes in the garage. Or the  _car_. He doesn't blink when Bruce hands the same towel to him and he does a fine job at smearing the soot all over his own face. He can feel it in his hair and on his eyelashes, which makes him think of the snow in Bruce's as they flew over the city.

He smiles.

They look ridiculous.

Bruce seems to think the same. He clears his throat. "You know who else is normally good with bombs, Clark? Other than Tim and myself, I mean."

"No, who?" Clark asks, trying not to taste the ash in the back of his throat.

"You."

"Am I?" There aren't any cobwebs in the Batcave, but there are certainly lots of bats and they're just  _fascinating_ right now. "But that one tonight was just…wow," Clark tries.

"Clark, there  _are_ other ways if you want to talk."

"Did Dick get his Christmas present?" Clark asks suddenly.

Bruce presses his lips into a hard, grim line. "You have x-ray vision."

"I respect your privacy," Clark says.

"Not enough to listen to the news report that was on directly above us, instead," Bruce snaps.

"How did you know there was a news report on directly above us?" Clark asks, and Bruce just gives him an 'I'm Batman' expression before sighing and saying, "No."

"No, what? No's not an answer to that question."

Bruce gives him another sigh. "No, he didn't get his present. Or not  _that_  one." His hand is in his hair, rubbing almost nervously. "Not the one you're thinking of. I got him a new bike. It has this blabbidy, blah, blah with a gribblyfritz."

"Oh. Sounds...er… _nice_ ," Clark says.

Bruce nods. "It's a superior machine. It took forever to build."

Clark rubs his own hair nervously and things they must both look pretty dorky. "So…is he going to get it later? The…um… _other_  present?"

Sigh fifteen of the night sounds. "He didn't want a kiss, Clark."

"Oh? He didn't?" Clark's not  _really_ surprised, he's just an amazing actor. Not surprised  _at all_.

"No, he wanted a hug.  _Just_ a hug," says Bruce.

"Oh," Clark mumbles.

"Yes. 'Oh.'"

"That's good. I mean…do you think it was going to  _stay_  just a hug?" asks Clark.

"Yes,  _of course_. He knows I…is it too late to tell you it's none of your damn business?" Bruce crosses his arms and manages to look exactly as if he should be wearing black and intimidating crime lords into submission.

Clark takes a step closer because he's pretty sure Bruce's posture doesn't mean as much as the words that came before. Right now, he's also pretty sure he's supposed to say something like, "Yes. Far too late." So he does.

"And too late to yell at you for taking me away from a major investigation to handle a bomb you could have handled yourself, setting off an alarm—deliberately—which could have gotten me and Nightwing caught, and for using the term 'Batgate' in serious conversation?"

Clark smiles, fixes his curl. "You wouldn't have gotten caught. And I guess it's never too late for you to yell at me. You always seem to find the time."

"And too late for us to—"

"No, Bruce," he says and takes a step closer. "It's never too late for that."

Bruce just shakes his head. "This is a hell of a way to spend Christmas," he says and waves a hand between the two of them, dirty, smelly, and having a conversation they've always managed not to have all these years. Too late, or not, it's what they've got.

Clark smiles, says, "I know  _exactly_  how you feel," and then makes his intentions clear. There's a mingling of breath—turkey and coffee and cheese.

And, yes, well, mayo.

Still, Bruce stops him with, "Any tornadoes in Kansas or typhoons in Okinawa or kittens in trees in Nova Scotia? Alien invaders with plans for world domination?"

And that and more has always been in the way  _before_  but, tonight…

"Not a single one."

"Good." It's Bruce who kisses him before he can finish the motion; Clark thinks he does it just to be difficult. It's not like a first kiss usually is—awkward and kind of bad—and Clark thanks years of a rocky friendship for that. No, not a rocky  _friendship_ , a rocky… _everything_. This is a kiss that tastes and feels a lot like kiss number seventy or so. So they've got it right on the first try. Clark is sure this is just another example of how well they work together.

They're both a little huffy and shaky when it ends.

Then Bruce pulls away and says, "Merry Christmas. Now go take a shower."

So Clark smiles, accommodatingly, and goes to take a shower.

* * *

He puts on the clothes that Alfred has left for him (black pajamas that smell like Bruce) and makes his way to Bruce's voice. He's on the phone in the library—freshly showered himself—speaking in an ineffective whisper to Dick. He sounds clumsy.

"I…always…that is  _you_  always." Bruce's face twists into annoyance. "You did a good job," he finally manages. "With the safe. And interference."

"Were you near that explosion?" Dick asks, and Clark can hear the sound of him drying his hair with a towel that probably has little bats all over it. "Hit your head, maybe?"

"No," Bruce grunts.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm hanging up now."

"Bruce! You can't hang up! I haven't thanked you for the awesome gribblef—"

 _Click_.

Bruce turns to Clark, sees the humor on his face and says, "You can stand there looking like a smug ass or you can come with me."

Clark pretends to think. "Well, I'm wearing a pair of your pajamas, so I might as well stay."

"Hm. Reubens first," Bruce says and manages to skulk out of the room, clinging to shadows that Clark hadn't even noticed were there before. Clark, for all that he follows right behind him, somehow manages to walk only in the light.

* * *

It's a long, slow night.

As if he has earned a surprise present, there really are no typhoons or earthquakes, or ships tossed into glaciers at sea. Or aliens.

There's just Bruce, once again in another costume. This one's just flesh and bone and scars, so it tastes a lot better than Clark is sure Kevlar tastes. He forces himself to stop thinking about the taste of Kevlar because it gives him ideas.

Clark can see every fracture and sprain in Bruce's body that hasn't healed, and he avoids those places, but everywhere else is fair game. And Alfred is bringing cookies to Tim who is on the phone to Dick who is talking about his new bike, and so the mansion is quiet except for the little noises Bruce tries not to make. Christmas in the truest sense, complete with fire blazing in a massive fireplace (and when did Alfred do that?).

"This one?" Clark asks and just gives in and licks along it.

Bruce kind of twists to see (the scar or Clark  _licking_ him, only he knows) and says, "Poison Ivy," with a frown. The one on his elbow, it turns out, is from Bane. Poison Ivy seems to hit only the most interesting, tasty places. There's another one from her on Bruce's lower abdomen that Clark almost wants to thank her for. His tongue fits in the groove.

It's a big bed. Lots of room to tumble (and maybe even fly) and end up on top. So he holds Bruce down and just looks. In the eyes, around the mouth, there's just enough of everyone he's ever been that Clark has to smile. And kiss him again.

"Damn," Bruce hisses and rides into it. "Clark—"

"Yeah."

"Mmm. Next time I want to see you in—" He tugs at sleeves Clark doesn't have, runs his hands along his neck where a cape isn't, and looks a little wild.

"We can do that," Clark agrees and rolls them again until he can look up at Bruce, strain against the callused grip just because he doesn't have to, but has wanted to for a long time. "In all that black," he imagines and then nips at a collarbone. "The  _gloves_."

"In the Fortress," Bruce growls and plays with his hair, fixates on it like he's starved for the feel. Just once, Bruce moves a finger around Clark's eyes, forming glasses that aren't there. Just once, almost unconsciously. Then his hands are tracing along Clark's jaw, his tongue licking at the stretched skin over bone again and again so that Clark feels justified knowing that at least he's not the  _only_ one walking around with a  _list_.

And checking it twice.

"God, yes," Clark agrees. "And maybe on the—"

"Numerous times," Bruce agrees, like he's been wanting to push Clark down on top of that beast of a car as much as Clark has been wanting to be pushed. 

 _"_ Bruce _, yes_ ," he moans. This is how it's supposed to be when it's a finally. There's too much of everything, his body outracing his mind to do all the little things they both want. As much as possible. Which is why he can't stop sucking Bruce's fingers and nipping along the dent in his rib that he  _knows_  is from him. Why Bruce keeps splaying his fingers along his chest and ass and trying to make marks along his back that he can't.

It's why he tries to explain about Dick—"I was…I didn't want to believe that he could take what I never"—and fails because Bruce stops him by _swallowing_ around him and refusing to stop doing it over and over.

Maybe it's why Bruce holds him through the tremors, still stroking his hair, whispering his name. All of them. Why he says, "That was almost enough," before rolling onto his stomach, looking over his shoulder at Clark with eyes that burn blue.  _"Almost."_  

And that's an invitation that not even Superman can turn down.

So he doesn't.

The fire burns down. New stars emerge above Gotham, hidden by those wonderful buttresses that Clark just can't get enough of.

He loses count, and Bruce was the one that said time didn't matter so, yeah…

"Again," Clark huffs.  _"Again?"_

"Lost time," Bruce answers and traces an 'S' in the sweat on his chest. Repeats the shape with his tongue.

And Clark's body is in the here and now, but his mind is several floors down. Black armored, high gloss enamel.

"It  _is_ in the Cave, isn't it?"

"Yes, but when I said that, I meant later. We're not going to the cave just so we can—"

Bruce lands on the hood and stifles the "Oof." Shakes off the dizziness. "Clark—"

"I've been very, very good," he says and ends that argument (and lots of others) with another kiss.

And then another. Bruce returns every single one, just as hard, just as fierce. He has to arch back to feel more and Clark fits against him so tight, so hard and hot, that he pulls him closer, holds him with his thighs (actually  _squeezes_  him, and Clark can  _feel_ it).

Bruce also grumbles about the shocks and struts.

And Clark pretends not to hear him.

In revenge for the crack about 'Batgate,' which he still rather likes the sound of.

* * *

And at his mansion in Metropolis, Lex Luthor prepares to let fly a shovel at the head of a boy in a fuzzy hat with little fuzzy tassels, much to the dismay of his PR rep. The boy's crime is singing 'Silent Night' in a pleasant alto.

"Merry Fucking Christmas!" Luthor screams.

And to all a good night, he doesn't say. But we're all sure he means to.

The End


End file.
